


All Your Pretty Lies

by lilbluednacer



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Eventual Sex, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, POV Second Person, Slow Burn, empath OFC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-04
Updated: 2016-04-12
Packaged: 2018-05-24 14:32:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6156686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilbluednacer/pseuds/lilbluednacer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time you meet Dean Winchester he almost kills you. Don't all healthy relationships start with attempted murder?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is set loosely Seasons 2-4. I honestly have no idea what I'm doing with this but feedback is kindly appreciated :)

The first time you meet Dean Winchester he almost kills you.

You shouldn't have gone to the bar that night, you should've told Faith no and gone home to your little apartment and your little life. But you can never say no to your younger sister, and she knows it.

You shouldn't have that last drink, shouldn't have shoved Faith a handful of crumpled bills for a cab and sent her out the door without you.

You're walking out of the ladies room and down the hallway back towards the bar and the exit when you brush shoulders with him, the guy who'd been eye fucking you from across the room as soon as you walked into the bar and took off your coat.

It happens like this: your left shoulders touch as you pass each other, a button on your wool trench coat catching on the seam of his leather jacket. He stops, grabbing you by the shoulder with one large hand to separate you. It happens so fast you can't stop what happens next:

Pain like you've never felt before, like every molecule of your being is lit on fire, your hands groping blindly for something to keep you from keeling over and landing face-first on the nasty bar floor.

 _Well, shit_.

This hasn't happened since you were twelve, when you loaned Stacey Collins a pen in seventh grade biology and promptly threw up all over your desk from the wave of pain you felt from her.

She killed herself that night, with a bucket to stand on and a length of rope she knotted around her throat like a cruel necklace.

You learned, after that, how to keep your walls up, how to keep other people's feelings out of your head. This doesn't happen to you. Not anymore.

Sometimes you'll feel something, like a flicker or a wave, but not like _this_. Like you've lost all control of your abilities, like you don't remember how to control your abilities.

Before you can catch your breath he has you up against the wall, his hand curled hard enough around your shoulder to crush the bone. You gasp, the pain clearing, gone as quickly as it came, and stare into green eyes that are so cold you shiver.

"What are you?" he growls.

He felt you connect with him? _Double shit_.

"Please," you wheeze, your throat tightening. "Let me go."

"I said, what are you?" He's beautiful, or he would be if he wasn't so angry, shoulders hunched, body tense and ready to pounce.

"Nothing," you plead. "Please, this is a mistake-"

"No, sweetheart, you thinking you could take me out was the mistake." Aggression is rolling off him in waves, and then something more sinister, something that feels like _danger_ , like _kill_.

You look down and see the point of a blade against your side.

"Please," you gasp, "I didn't do anything-"

"You think I didn't feel that?"

"I didn't mean to, I swear, please, just listen to me, this is all a huge misunderstanding-"

"Hey!" The voice of your savior belongs to a guy coming out of the men's bathroom. He's tall, long shaggy dark hair, and he looks _furious_. "What the hell are you doing?"

The guy doesn't even look at him. "She did something to me."

"I didn't!" you say, your voice shaking. "Please, I swear I didn't."

The second guy crowds around the pair of you, arms going around both your shoulders like a bizarre little ménage a trois, so no one can see the knife.

He takes a good look at you, eyes tripping over white-blond hair spilling over the shoulders of your threadbare coat, your little cross necklace nestled in the hollow of your throat, your blue eyes. _Please_ , you think, praying that somehow this boy can hear you. _Please help me_.

"Dean," he hisses into your captors ear, shocking you. "You're lit, man. She's just a fucking girl."

"No." He's firm in his conviction and for some reason it makes you sad, or you would be if you weren't so terrified you were about to die on the floor of a shitty sports bar in fucking _Wringleyville_. "She did something to me, I felt it."

The other guy sighs, weary but patient. "Well you look fine to me."

 _Dean_ glares. "In my head. She got in my head."

"I did not!" you exclaim, offended. You have ethics. You'd never intentionally go roaming around through someone else's emotions. A poke or two, sure, but nothing like he's implying. That's just wrong.

The man with the hair reaches out suddenly, wrenching the other guy off you, with a stream of curses and _paranoid_ and _you're scaring the locals_.

The knife goes back inside the coat, your attacker turns on his heel and stomps away, leaving a trail of cold in his wake.

"Hey." The second guy turns to you, all soft edges and puppy dog eyes. "Are you okay?"

You let your walls down, just a little, just enough to taste what he's offering. Sorrow, guilt, a little fear. Sincerity.

"Yeah." Your voice comes out sounding frail. "You should really put him on a leash."

He laughs weakly. "Would if I could. I'm sorry, my brother, he's..." He trails off, can't find the words or maybe he's just afraid to use them.

"He's your brother?"

He nods, a little grimace playing on his lips. "Yeah."

 _Well, sucks to be you_ , you think. "I have to go." You button your coat up to your neck.

"Are you sure? Can I buy you a drink?" He's so sorry, you can tell, he feels just awful. "Please, I feel terrible about this."

"No thank you," you say quietly. "I just want to go home."

He exhales, runs his fingers through that long hair. He's beautiful too, like his brother, but not so intimidating, big sad eyes and long loose limbs.

"I really am sorry about that," he says. "You sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine," you say, and flash him a fake-bright smile. "Really."

You turn around and leave before he can stop you.

Outside the wind is going pretty hard and you think about taking a cab before remembering you gave all your cash to Faith, and your credit card is maxed out anyway.

You start to walk but you're shaking all over so you drop down on the little bench outside the bar, head in your hands, thinking _what the fuck, what the fuck_ , over and over, because some guy with cheekbones like a model and the hands of a killer almost murdered you in a bar.

"Hey." Your head snaps up at _his_ voice, your muscles freezing up.

He's got his hands up in the air, _I mean you no harm_ , giving you plenty of space as he approaches you. "Just want to apologize."

"Your brother already did that," you retort, crossing your arms over your chest.

He ducks his head against the wind and jams his hands in his pockets. "I'm a big boy, I can clean up my own messes."

Against your better judgment you reach out and give him the slightest nudge with your mind. You pull back right away, shocked at the quick succession of emotions that hit you: disgust, fear, frustration, self-hatred.

But-he's not angry, or full of rage. He doesn't feel like he did in the bar, like he wanted you dead and he'd do it, gladly.

And underneath everything else, shame.

Just because you know he's expecting you to tell him to fuck off you lean back and say, "Okay. Go ahead."

His confused expression almost makes up for him scaring the living hell out of you earlier. "Huh?"

"Come on, get to it, it's freezing out here."

He drops down on the opposite end of the bench and looks you right in the eye. "I'm sorry I almost killed you." And then he leans back to mirror your stance, totally self-satisfied.

You raise an eyebrow. "Your brother apologized twice, actually."

That makes him laugh, a short harsh sound from deep in his chest. "Sounds like him."

"At least one of you is nice."

His lips curl up in a disarming smile. "Oh I can be real nice if you ask right, sweetheart."

You laugh lightly, taking him in for the first time. Full lips, the suggestion of serious muscles under all those layers. "I don't doubt that."

That makes him smile for real. "So you're not afraid of me?"

"Are you going to try to kill me again?"

"It was a misunderstanding?" he says hopefully.

"You're hilarious."

He winks, and _Jesus Christ_ , that is just not fair. "So come on." He gives you a conspiratorial grin. "What are you?"

You look away, watch drunk college kids from across the street stumble out of a bar. "I told you, I'm nothing."

"You're _something_ ," he protests.

"Honestly," you say, feeling the back of your neck heat. "It's not a big deal."

He leans in toward you a little bit. "Witch?"

You scowl. "Hell no. I don't fuck around with shit like that."

"Good," he says approvingly. "So...psychic?"

"Nope." You pull your sleeves down over your cold hands. "If there are spirits around they're sure as shit not interested in me."

"But you did something to me."

"It's not my fault you're a strong broadcaster," you grumble.

He raises an eyebrow. "A what?"

You groan quietly. "I'm an empath, alright?"

The eyebrow goes higher. "A _what_?"

"An empath," you sigh.

"And an empath would be..."

"I don't have supernatural powers or anything," you say quickly. "I just...feel stuff."

"You feel stuff," he says flatly.

"Yeah. My stuff, other people's stuff, the whole world's really," you say. You're not bitter, you swear. It's just the truth.

"Like-physical stuff?"

"No," you say quietly. "Emotional."

A series of expressions flick across his face. Anger, shock, confusion, concern. "Is that what you did to me?"

"I didn't do anything to you!"

"Well it sure as hell felt like something to me!"

"Did you ever consider that maybe _you_ did it to _me_?" you snap.

His eyes widen. "What?"

"Okay, think of it like a radio," you try to explain. "Most people can only perceive one frequency. But I can experience all these other frequencies, because I have this totally fucked up brain that can't tell the difference between my feelings and other people's, so if _someone_ is _blasting_ their station at full volume, my circuits are going to overload."

He rubs his lips. "Interesting analogy."

"It's kind of hard to explain."

"So what did you feel?"

"Hmm?"

"When you connected to me." He says it like its something sexual.

You bite your lip. "Pain," you admit.

His eyes flare. "Pain?"

"Yeah."

"From me?"

"Yeah."

"I hurt you?" He looks upset at this revelation, which is weird because ten minutes ago he had no qualms about killing you, which would definitely hurt.

"Just for a minute," you reassure him. "It happens sometimes, it's not a big deal."

He locks his jaw. "I'm sorry," he says, but this time he really does mean it, because he says it so low you barely hear him.

"It's okay, really, I'm used to it."

"Getting hurt all the time isn't okay," he counters, sounding...worried?

No, that can't be right. This guy's emotions are really fucking with your head.

"What did you feel?" you deflect.

"What did I feel?"

"You accused me of messing with your head," you remind him.

"Well you gave me one hell of a headache," he says defensively. "I thought you were trying to voodoo me or something."

You stare at him. "You tried to kill me over a headache?"

"Like I said, I thought you were trying to giving me an aneurysm."

"Who brings a knife to a bar?" you snap.

"I have a special line of work," he says. "Part of the job description."

You cock your head. "And what kind of work is that?"

He tilts his head at you-seriously, why is he mirroring you like this, it's annoying. "What do you think I do?"

You almost say soldier but you sense that's not quite right. There's something else in him, other than animal instincts and quick hands that could rip you to shreds before you could scream.

There's an attitude, some kind of defiant lift of his cleft chin that would've been beaten out of him in boot camp for sure.

"Assassin?" you finally guess.

He considers this, grinning like he's been given a compliment. "Not far off," he offers.

"Oh great, that makes me feel so much better."

His eyes flick down to the cross hanging on your neck, like he's noticing it for the first time. "Don't worry, I only kill bad things, darlin'."

"You thought I was a bad thing!"

He gives an apologetic shrug. "Yeah well, it's been a long day. My instincts are a little fuzzy."

"I've had a long day too," you say, standing up from the bench. "Someone tried to kill me for no reason."

He gives you a tentative look. "No harm no foul?"

"Only if you promise to keep your weapons to yourself."

His lips curl up in a lazy smile. "Whatever you want, Blondie."

"I have a name, you know."

"Oh yeah?" His smile turns suggestive.

You roll your eyes and dig a business card out of your coat pocket. It's simple, just your name and profession and the address of your one bedroom apartment slash office.

He squints to read it under the streetlight, and then he laughs in delight. "I thought you said you weren't a psychic."

You grin. "I'm not. But a girl's gotta eat, you know."

He wiggles his eyebrows. "I can definitely get behind that."

You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, unsure of when you went from being afraid of this guy to wanting to like him, really wanting to like him. What is wrong with you? Your head is telling you to run but the fluttery feeling in your chest keeps your feet rooted to the pavement.

"I should go," you say.

His forehead wrinkles. "You walking?"

"Yeah. I live close."

"I'll walk you home," he offers instantly.

"Oh no, that's okay." You laugh nervously. "I don't think we've built up enough trust for that yet."

"Yet?"

"You're incorrigible, you know that right?"

He gives you a smile that looks a little helpless. "It was nice to meet you, Grace."

You find yourself smiling back. "It was nice to meet you too."


	2. Chapter 2

You're not sure who you expect to be on the other side of the door when you open it at eight in the morning, but it's not Dean.

He's in a cheap suit today, a pair of wayfarers tucked into a side pocket, a flashy grin playing on his lips.

Well, at least you put on jeans first before opening the door, you think, staring at him in surprise. What the hell is he doing here, anyway?

He takes advantage of your shock, easily sidestepping you to walk into your foyer. He looks down at your business card in his hand and scans your living room.

"You see clients in your apartment?" he asks, sounding mildly horrified.

"I used to have an office but the overhead was insane," you say weakly, self-consciously combing your hair with your fingers.

He frowns. "Don't you know how dangerous that is?"

You cross your arms over your chest, thinking _thank god_ you put a bra on when you hear him knocking on your door.

"Did you come here just to lecture me on my business practices?" you ask tartly.

He shakes his head, fingers skimming over your bookshelf, the little framed photo of you and Faith the day she graduated from high school.

"I have some more questions," he says.

You raise an eyebrow. "About?"

"About your..." He waves a hand at you. "Your voodoo magic thing."

"I don't do magic," you say flatly.

He grins, a dimple popping in his cheek. "I'm just teasing, darling. Really, I just have a couple questions if you've got a minute."

"Alright," you say. "Fire away."

"You said you can feel what other people are feeling," he says, moving on to the crystals on the mantel.

"Yeah?"

"Can you read people's minds?"

"No-well, not technically."

That earns you a sharp look. "Technically?"

"Well I can't literally read your mind, but since I can sense all of your emotions, given the right context, yes, I could probably figure out the general gist of it."

He considers this. "How about a hypothetical?"

You shrug. "Alright."

"Say I put you in front of a police lineup. Five people, four are innocent and one is guilty. Can you-"

"Yes." You finish the question for him.

He looks impressed. "Really?"

"It's not as complicated as it sounds. If one of them is guilty his emotional frequency will be way different than all the others. It's easy to conceal what you're thinking but it's really difficult to conceal what you're feeling. There'll be an odd man out."

He nods at that, looks down to check his watch. "So I was wondering," he says, "how'd you feel about helping me out with a job?"

"A job?"

"Yeah," he says. "I could use someone with your particular...talent."

You look at him in disbelief. "You need me to help you kill something?"

He shakes his head rapidly, looking a little nervous. "I need you to tell me if one of them is guilty."

"Oh," you say, considering the offer. "Will you pay me?"

"Um..." He laughs, yes, definitely nervous. "How about I buy you breakfast, cupcake?"

You snag your coat off the hook by the front door. "My name is Grace."

He chuckles as you grab your keys. "Oh I know your name, baby."

/

You walk with him down the street to your favorite diner on Addison. He immediately asks for coffee, and when the waitress delivers the carafe to the table he pours you a cup with one hand while skimming the menu.

"So what's the job?" you ask curiously. "Actually wait, what's with the suit?"

He stirs cream into his coffee mug. "Don't take this the wrong way, but it's better for you if I don't tell you."

You lean in on your elbows. "You're very secretive, you know."

He gives you an appraising look over the edge of his coffee cup. "I get the feeling you could figure out all my secrets if you wanted to."

You make a show of considering that, resting your chin in your hands. " l could if I really wanted to, I guess."

"You guess?"

"I wouldn't do that to you," you assure him. "Just because I can do it doesn't mean I have a right to. I've got morals."

"Oh, yeah?" he says, that pretty smile back on his face. "What kind of morals?"

You lean back against the vinyl booth. "What do you care?"

He gives you a dangerous smile. "Just curious."

"Sure you are."

"Come on." He tilts his head, sunlight from the window falling across his face. "You can read me but I can't read you. We're not exactly playing on an even field, sweetheart. Just trying to catch up."

"I'm not reading you," you say, flagging down the waitress.

You order an egg-white garden omelette, which makes his expression sour but it perks right back up when you get a side of blueberry pancakes. He orders eggs and bacon, a half stack of pancakes, extra whip.

"So you mean it?" he asks, when you have plates of food in front of you. "You're not reading me right now?"

You shake your head. "I can feel you but I'm not-I'm not actively digging for any information if that makes sense."

He pours syrup all over his pancakes. "Whad'ya mean, you can feel me? I don't feel anything like last night."

"Last night was different," you explain. "We-"

"Connected," he says, licking whip cream off the corner of his mouth.

"Right," you say, forcing yourself not to follow the path of his tongue with your eyes. "I don't normally do that. Like, ever."

He wrinkles his forehead. "Why not?"

You shudder. "Way too intense. It can make me sick."

"Oh," he says quietly. "So what do you feel?"

You shrug. "I just...I feel you. I can't really explain it."

"Like having a song on in the background instead of blowing out the speaker?" he suggests.

"Hey, you're starting to get the analogy!" you tease, and he smiles right along with you.

When he pays the check he's a little surreptitious about it, his hand covering the name on the card when he passes it off to the waitress. But it goes through, everything is fine, and you leave together to walk back to where he parked his car in an overnight garage. He walks on the outside of the sidewalk, stepping close to you when a group of frat boys pass so that his body is between you and them.

"I have another question," he says, stopping at the corner at a red light.

"Yeah?"

His eyes are hidden by his sunglasses so you can't read his expression. "If I touched you again would it hurt you?"

"Oh," you say, surprised. "No, that was-that was a fluke. You can touch me."

"Really?"

"Yeah," you nod, your hair falling across your face. "What happened before, it wasn't because we touched, that just-made it stronger, I guess. But yeah, it won't hurt me."

"Good to know," he says in a low voice, and the light turns green and he lets the subject drop.

/

He drives you to the west side, to a huge house that would have been elegant fifty years ago but is looking a bit run down and weary at present.

The brother is already there in a matching suit, waiting on the sidewalk when you roll up to the curb.

"Hi, I'm Sam," he says warmly, offering his hand to you. "It's nice to see you again..."

"Grace," you say softly.

"I'm going to get started," he says, exchanging an ominous look with his brother, and goes up the steps of the house and knocks on the door.

Dean leans in suddenly and rests one hand on your shoulder. Unlike last night his touch is feather-light. "Okay, Grace. So when we go inside I need you to read the people in the house."

"You want to know if one of them is guilty of something?"

"I want to know the odd one out."

You bite your lip, turning to look at the house, wondering what's inside. Wondering what you're doing out here with an almost-assassin who may or may not be impersonating a government agent, if the suit is any indication.

"Hey." His hand drifts to your jaw, coaxing you to look at him. "Can you do that for me, Grace?"

You pull back from his touch, overwhelmed. "I can do it."

His hand goes to the inside of his jacket, nodding brusquely. "Good."

Inside the house Sam is in the living room, a serious look on his face. There's a boy on the couch flanked by who you assume are his parents, a toddler in a playpen in the far corner of the room.

You hover in the hallway with Dean, his hand warm on your shoulder. "You don't have to talk to them," he says in a low voice. "Can you read them from here?"

You nod and take a deep breath, feeling his eyes on you. You let yours drift shut so you can focus, pull your walls down. You know Dean and Sam by now, can feel their energy-tense, coiled, waiting to strike. You let your attention shift to the family on the couch.

 _Fear, fear, fear_. All the same, identical waves of terror. Whatever happened here, is happening, it's bad. But you don't feel any guilt, there's no indication that one of them is trying to deceive you.

Dean's staring at you, waiting for an answer. You shake your head at him, confused about why you're here when there's _nothing here_ , just a scared child and two scared parents.

He leans in and grasps your elbow. "What about the girl?"

Your eyes go wide, looking at the chubby little toddler fenced in by the playpen, clutching a stuffed cat.

"But-"

"Everyone," he says gruffly. "You need to check everyone."

"Fine," you sigh, and extend your energy out to the little girl-

 _Darkness_ -

 _Blood_ -

 _Fire_ -

Your eyes fly open. Oh god, you're going to be sick. You nod jerkily at Dean and run out the front door, fall on your knees on the browning grass and dry heave. You're freezing all over, it hurts, you want to die-

You pull yourself up to sit and press your forehead to your knees. _Breathe in, breathe out_. Don't fight it-that's the trick. You have to sink into the pain, let it pull you over and do with it what it will.

Fighting is pointless. You've learned to surrender.

You hear someone yelling your name and then there's a hand on your back, warm and solid. Your walls are still down and you let yourself get flooded with Dean's energy - strong, protective. Safe.

You're shaking with it still - whatever _it_ is, that burning dark and evil thing - but he's there, grounding you, and you can breathe again.

"Grace, talk to me, you okay?"

You pull your head off your knees, willing yourself not to cry. "What _was_ that?"

"Grace-"

"That wasn't-that wasn't a _child_." Your voice sounds frail, accusatory.

He rubs his eyes quickly. He feels heavy, his concern for you cut with this deep, serious resignation. "No, it wasn't."

It's like something in your brain just goes numb, because you _know_ what you felt-that thing, whatever it was, it wasn't human.

And he just confirmed it.

You allow him to pull you to your feet, feel him press his car keys into your hand. "Go wait in the car, sweetheart."

You stumble to the Impala, watching him retreat back into the house, spine rigid and straight. You curl up in the backseat, feel the nausea rise up and recede like a wave. You crack a window so you don't vomit all over the interior of the car. You don't know what to do so you just wait for them, sick to your stomach, your skin slick with sweat.

You were right last night, you shouldn't have gone to the bar.

What have you gotten yourself into?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took me so long to update, life has been kicking my ass lately. Hope you guys enjoy ;)

At some point you must fall asleep because you wake up in the backseat of the car with a throbbing headache and a dry mouth. Dean's twisted around in the front seat, watching you with an intensity that makes you shiver.

"What happened?" you ask, wincing as you sit up.

"You passed out or somethin'," he mutters. "Couldn't wake you up."

"Sorry," you apologize. "I think I blew a circuit or something. I'm not used to connecting to energy like-well. Something like that."

He lets the implication hang, gets out of the car and walks around to open your door.

"Where's your bother?"

He grips you by the wrists and pulls you out of the car. You're home, he magically managed to find a parking spot right in front of your building. "Dropped him at the motel we're staying at."

You nods faintly, lightheaded, and when you sway on the sidewalk his arm snakes around your waist. "How 'bout we get you inside?"

You find your keys in your coat pocket and buzz you both through the front door. "You really couldn't wake me up?"

His lips are pressed in a tight line as he steps into the elevator, hand flush against the small of your back. "Was fixing to take you to the hospital if you didn't wake up soon."

"I'm sorry," you murmur. "That's never happened before. I didn't mean to scare you."

He gives you a wan smile as he follows you out the elevator and down the hall towards your apartment. "It's cute that you think you can scare me."

He's lying through, because your body is thrumming with his fear. And something worse, something sick and dark and ugly.

Your fingers tremble when you try to unlock your door. He closes his hand around yours, does it for you, stepping right behind you into your apartment.

"I need a drink," you mumble, shrugging out of your coat. "You want a drink?"

He gives you a crooked grin, takes off his suit jacket and nearly folds it over the edge of your chair. "I never turn down a drink from a pretty girl."

You blink at him. "You think I'm pretty?" It's such a girl thing to say and you instantly regret it, but then the edges of his smile turn up.

He walks toward you and you stumble back a bit, your head is throbbing and you need a drink right now. "I think you're fucking gorgeous, actually."

You don't know what to say to _that_ , so you walk into your little kitchen and open the freezer. "I only have vodka but there's a liquor store down the street if you want something else."

"Vodka's fine." He hovers around you as you get two glasses, pour a healthy amount of liquor in each. You mix yours with grapefruit juice but he drinks it straight, barely making a face as he tosses it back.

"Another?" you offer, holding out the bottle to him.

"Please." He knocks back half of it in one swallow, looking like you feel, exhausted and melancholy.

"So," you say, hating the way your voice is shaking. "Did you kill it?"

He puts his glass down on the counter next to the sink and nods, doesn't look at you. Your eyes burn and you slam them shut, startling when you feel gentle callused fingers on your wrist.

"Hey." His voice is low and a shiver runs up your spine. "It wasn't human, remember?"

When you open your eyes his face is only inches away from yours. "What was it?"

Something flickers in his eyes. "You don't need to know. Trust me on that, okay?"

You turn away from him and slam back the rest of your drink, legs unsteady. "I need to sit down."

He follows you to the couch, sinks down so close to you your thighs are touching.

"Look," he says. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have gotten you involved."

You lean your head back against the back of the couch. "It's not your fault."

He laughs but it's not a nice sound. "Yes it is."

You frown and turn your head to him. "You asked for my help but I didn't have to say yes. That's on me, not you."

He shakes his head. "Not supposed to get civilians involved. I know better. And then you got sick-"

"Hey." You cup his shoulder, a little nervous, but he doesn't pull away. "I'll be fine."

He doesn't say anything but you can feel him, everywhere, burning under your skin.

"It's okay," you whispers, your thumb drifting to the back of his neck. What are you _doing_? "You don't have to feel guilty."

He squints sideways at you. "Thought you weren't reading me."

You blink at him, the vodka spreading heat through your veins. "It's kind of hard not to right now."

He shifts a little, turning towards you. "So I feel guilty, huh?"

You nods, captivated by those pretty green eyes.

His knee bumps into yours. "Anything else?"

Your breath catches in your chest. Is he asking you to read him? You run your thumb behind his ear and he lets out the tiniest sigh. You swallow, head spinning with emotions.

"Fear," you whisper. "You're afraid."

"I'm not scared of anything," he brags, gives you a cocky grin.

You stroke under his chin and he tilts his head back like a cat. It's like there's something buzzing between you, something stronger than you, undeniable.

"You're a liar," you whisper.

His hand grabs your thigh and then he's hauling you into his lap to straddle him. "How do you know that?"

You swallow a whimper, overwhelmed by _heat_ and _Dean_ , his hands warm on your hips. "I can feel it."

He stares at you, pupils blown. "What else?" he says hoarsely. "What else do you feel?"

Your heart pounding, you shake your head. "I'd have to connect with you to know that."

He blinks heavily, fingers drifting up to play with the hem of your top. "Can we do it without hurting you?"

You purse your lips, hesitant. "Yeah, but I don't think you want to do that."

"Why not?"

"Because it's-intense. Really intense."

"Think I can't handle you, princess?" He's challenging you now.

"Dean, you're drunk. You don't even know what you're asking me."

"Please." He sounds wrecked, his fingers brush your bare skin and you _jump_. "Do it."

You can't help it, you lean into his touch. You rarely do this with boys, you don't want to feel all their disgusting secret pervy thoughts but this, _him_ , is so different.

He's safe. He won't hurt you, you know just by feeling him out that you can trust him. And he's so, so beautiful.

Maybe you're drunk too, or maybe it's him, but you feel dizzy with need suddenly, to be closer, to feel him.

You lean forward, hands on his shoulders. "Are you sure?"

"Please." He sounds desperate, broken. "Please, Grace."

"Okay," you whisper. "Okay."

You bring your fingers to his temples and he goes perfectly still under you, staring up at your face. You let your eyes drift shut, imagine all your defenses melting away...

It hits you so hard you sway in his lap, curling over him, corded muscles around his shoulders firm under your hands. You feel him pant against your chest and you breathe with him, eyes filling with tears.

"What do you feel?" His voice is shaking. "Say it."

You gasp, flooded with so many things, have to really focus to get it to resolve into something tangible.

"Loss," you whisper. "You lose-everyone. _Oh_." You have to stop, take a few deep breaths. "You feel...oh Dean. It's not your fault. It's not your fault but you feel responsible, you feel-"

You break off on a sob, so close to his face you can feel his breath on your skin. "You're good. You're so good but you don't know it, you can't feel it but I do, I promise, it's not your fault, you're good, you're _so_ good-"

His lips press against yours, cutting you off, and you gasp into his mouth.

"Thank you," he breathes, like he's relieved, like you've given him a gift. "Thank you baby."

His lips drift to your jaw and all you can do is shudder, craving more, all of him, want to wrap your hands around the little boy who watches everyone leave and hold him close.

"Is this okay?" he asks, so tender, working his way down your throat.

You moan in response, his body all solid heat against you. He gets his hands under your thighs and then he's hauling you up, legs wrapping around his waist.

"Bedroom," he growls.

"Behind you," you breathe, and bury your face in his neck, inhaling him, smoke and leather and pine.

He walks you to your room and lays you down on your bed. Sinks down on one knee and just looks at you, trembling for him.

"So pretty," he murmurs, coming down on his forearms, body hovering over you. "Such a pretty girl."

"Please," you whimper, because you're lost in a haze of _need_ and _want_ , don't know if it's coming from you or him.

His lips meet yours again and you open your mouth, greedy. He strokes his tongue against yours, groans into your mouth. You arch back and he settles between your thighs, and then you're lost in him.

One of his hands drifts to your stomach, tugging at your top. "Can I?" 

"Yeah. _Yes_." You break away long enough to pull the offending fabric over your head. "You too. Please."

He grins suddenly and you feel yourself get wet, have to press your thighs together when he reveals cut muscles, a tattoo on his chest, silvery faded scars scattered down his arms and abdomen.

He gets down on one elbow next to you, hand resting on the fly of your jeans. You turn your head to kiss, warmth flooding your belly, everywhere, and when his hand slides between your legs all you can do is sigh into his mouth.

He cups you, firm pressure under heavy denim and you push your hips up, seeking more, it's not enough. You need him, more than you've ever needed anything.

"Can I touch you?" His voice is ragged. "Please, baby, just wanna make you feel good. Let me make you feel good."

It's a line, of course it's a line, but you can _feel_ him, he can't lie to you, not like this.

It's a line but he's telling the truth so you nod, breathless, lift your hips so he can pull your jeans down over your thighs to kick them off. He curls over you, fingers sliding under your pale pink thong.

You part your legs for him, gasp at the feel of warm think fingers opening you, feel him press his face into the hollow of your throat.

He groans, sliding two fingers up until he finds your clit. "You feel so good, sweetheart. Gonna make you feel so good."

Oh _Jesus_ , you were not prepared for this. You whimper, reach out to clutch at something, anything, and he captures your wrist with his free hand, pins it above your head.

"I gotcha baby," he murmurs, fingers stroking in a maddeningly slow rhythm.

You rock into his touch, a slow steady throb building and you need more, need him in you, and you cry out helplessly.

"What do you need, Grace?" Tongue ghosting over your earlobe, making you shudder. "You want more?"

Like he's the one reading your mind and not the other way around.

"Please." Your voice comes out hot and desperate. 

He chuckles, the bastard. "Okay baby, you asked for it."

Then his thumb is on your clit and two fingers are pushing inside you.

"Shit," you hiss, and roll your hips. He curls his fingers inside, searching for something and then he strokes a spot that makes you moan.

" _Oh_ ," you gasp, pressure really starting to build now. You squirm under his touch and he releases your wrist to hold your hip steady.

"You gonna come for me?" Speeding up his fingers, steady quick rhythm, so sweet you want to cry.

"Please," you beg, feeling pressure spiral into something big, about to shatter. "I need..." Big inhale. "I need it."

"I know, baby." So gentle, like he understands.

Thumb rubbing in frantic circles and he pumps his fingers, vicious, and then everything shatters, your body shakes and shakes, and he doesn't stop until you're crying out, pushing into his hand again and again until you're gasping for breath.

"Fuck me," you beg, pulling him up your body.

You're shivering, warm and pulsing for more, more. You want to drown in him, in this beautiful man radiating _strength_ and _desire_ and _safe_.

He kisses you, featherlight, impressively restrained. "Yeah?"

"Condoms are in the nightstand."

"Fuck yes." He gets his jeans off before you can blink, condom out of the box and then you're pushing him back against the headboard, taking the condom out of his hand and rolling it on for him.

He groans, head rolling back as you twist your wrist a little. You run your nails over his abs, watch muscles jump under your fingertips.

"C'mere," he says, and puts his hand back between your legs. "You good?"

You nod, brace yourself against his shoulders and sink down on him, watch his eyes roll back.

"Fuck," he hisses, hands gripping your hips. "You okay?"

You meet his eyes and it's like everything goes very still- like all you can feel is him, inside you, around you, and everything else, all the horror from earlier today, just dissolves.

You roll your hips experimentally and you both groan in unison. Feel a trembling flutter of need deep in your belly.

"You feel good," you whisper, shocked when his cheeks flush pink.

He pushes up into you and something hot floods through your veins, something that begs for _more, more_ , and you realize you're feeling _him_ , his arousal, his desire, for you.

"Shit."' His voice, so low you can barely hear him, like he's talking to himself. "So tight, goddamn, wanted you since last night."

You're panting, swaying against his chest, one hand curled around his neck. "Really?

His hand goes between your legs and you _squeak_. "Couldn't stop thinking 'bout you, _fuck_ , knew you'd be- _Jesus sweetheart_ , so good, knew you'd feel so good."

You feel it come on in a huge swell and you want it to never end, this feeling, you want more and more-for the first time in your life you're not afraid to sink into it and let someone carry you away.

"Don't stop," you plead, pressing your face into his shoulder. "Feels so good, please don't stop."

He splays one hand low on your back. "Come on," he urges. "Not gonna stop, gonna fuck you so good, baby."

" _Yeah_ ," you gasp, and then you start to shake, your nails digging into his neck, clenching around him as arousal spills over into frantic need. "Oh _god_."

" _Fuck_." He moans, and then his hips are slamming into you. " _Fuck fuck fuck_ -"

"Please." You're babbling, grinding down onto him, so close. "Please, please, Dean, _please_ -"

And then he's pounding up into you and his fingers pinch in just the right place and a scream tears itself out of your throat as you go rigid, coiled heat spilling over into bliss.

He keeps fucking you, until you're boneless and he makes this gasp in the back of his throat and _shudders_ , once, twice, hands twisting in your hair.

You just kind of stare at each other for a minute and then you slide off him so he can trash the condom, feeling impossibly small suddenly, watching the muscles in his back ripple.

Then he comes back to your bed and slides in next to you, wordless, and drops his cheek to your chest. You reach down and card your fingers through his hair, wondering why everything has gone from feeling incredible to deeply, deeply sad in the space of a minute.

"Look," he finally says, tilting his face up to look at you. "I really wish I could stay-"

"But you can't." You can feel it, how he's already pulling into himself. Withdrawing.

He reaches up and traces your cheek. "Gotta get back to Sam. Onto the next case. Just the way it is."

You nod against the feeling in your chest, like it hurts. "Okay."

He cocks an eyebrow, looking surprised. "You mad?"

That makes you giggle. "Well the sex was definitely worth it."

He gives you a lazy smile. "You're being seriously cool about this."

You scratch his scalp lightly, trying to commit this to memory-his energy, his warmth, the feel of his skin on yours. "That's because I know you're not lying."

His eyelids flutter, like what he really wants to do is fall asleep right here on your naked chest. "Cool if I come say hi next time I'm in town?"

"Next time?"

He turns his mouth on you, lazily suckles on your breast, runs his tongue around the bud of your nipple. "We drive through the Midwest all the time."

Your head tilts back, you let out long sigh when his mouth pulls away. "No monsters again, okay?"

Something dark flashes in his eyes. "I'll do my best, how about that?"

And because you can feel him you know that that's not a lie either.


End file.
